


there is no more mercy in him—

by bartonbones



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, this play gave me feels here have them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:43:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bartonbones/pseuds/bartonbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>than there is milk in a male tiger.</p><p>Young Caius Martius chases after a butterfly and learns a crucial lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is no more mercy in him—

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Coriolanus starring Tom Hiddleston (sadly, not in person) I was stuck by such feels I needed more. Except I guess no one else felt the same way, since there was nO FANFICTION LIKE AT ALL, so I wrote some instead. I hope you all enjoy it!

 

 Caius ran after the yellow butterfly its thin, papery wings fluttering in staccato as it flew away from him. 

 He’d run to catch up to it, his fingers almost, almost touching its wings, when, like a wind had gusted behind it, it’d rush away with a speed that seemed increasingly more impossible—and frustrating—each time that it did.

 Sometimes it would turn suddenly around to avoid him, which if it could think would be cleverly planned because every time Caius would nearly trip over his long legs trying to switch directions fast enough. He wanted to prove the butterfly wrong that it couldn’t trick him this time, that its clever mind had no match to his bravery or strength. he really is like thor gone wrong so so wrong like a mix of thor and loki tbh only jut still. so so wrong.

 And finally, after what must have been hours of long, gruelling, battle in his head, he caught it by the wing and held it close to his nose, feeling a sense of triumph. “Ha!” he shouted to it, as if it understood him. This must be his greatest accomplishment yet, in all of his eight years, he thought.

 The wing that was not held between his two small fingers flapped frantically, trying to get away from him, to escape from fingers that seemed so small when pressed against his father’s, but must be absolutely giant to the creature currently trapped between them.

 He looked at it carefully, trying to decide what to do now that he’d caught it. He doubted soldiers only captured their enemies, so logically, if he were a great warrior, he must slay his trophy, as a great soldier of Rome would do, and come home with sweat on his forehead and an oak wreath on his crown. 

 The butterfly’s wings stopped flapping so fast, as if it somehow understood, as if it accepted its fate to die. Perhaps it was simply tired, or it was making a sacrifice.

 And all of the sudden, any idea of ripping its wings or biting it or squashing it underneath his foot did not seem so glorious, not so victorious. The gold, merry tinge of it all washed and faded and it became only killing this creature who he’d chased after for what felt like hours. Not for any great cause, either—the butterfly was a great a threat to Rome as it presently was to Caius, and no one would venerate him for killing it—but just because he could.

 Perhaps he could say that it had been mocking him, with turning and flying beside his legs where it must know he could not stoop down fast enough to catch it. Only his heart knew that it hadn’t done anything so consciously—it was only trying to run away from him, to avoid being squashed to death by his hands.

 So he let it go, praying that he had not held it too hard, that its wing wasn’t broken from what must be the crushing weight of his small fingers. If it did, the butterfly didn’t show it, and flew away from him faster than it had seemed to be able to before.

Tears burned in his eyes and he wondered why. He let it go, he hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ so why did he feel so sad?

 He wanted his momma.

For what, he didn’t know, except the he felt so horribly bad and he didn’t want to feel so horribly bad alone. Fortunately, he was not at all far from home, and running there didn’t even take a minute.

When he came inside, his mother looked over, saw his teary, red face, and immediately asked if he was hurt, looking him over to check for any injuries.

 Caius shook his head, standing straight and still.

 “Then, for my sake, tell me what is wrong?” his mother asked, placing her hands gently on his shoulders and looking his eyes. He took such pride in being the tallest of all the other children, but his mother still had to bend down for him. She was the only person he didn’t mind feeling small in front of, because her bigness had never been anything but comforting. 

Still, he could not say what was, so he pressed his lips tightly together and shook his head again.

“Caius,” she said, gently and softly. He looked up at her, hungry for comforting from whatever it was that was hurting.

 He did not receive what he was expecting.

 “You can not cry if you have no reason to.”

 He looked up at her, lips falling from their straight line into a shocked part.

 "You are too old for that, now.” she said. “Practically a man.”

 Was he? Did being a man mean you could not cry if you were hurt, if you were sad?

 “Look at me, Caius.”

 He didn’t lift his head, so shocked that these words were coming from his momma’s lips, that she was standing and telling him not that he should stop crying, because he should no longer be sad, but that he should stop crying no matter what simply because.

 Her hand grabbed his chin to lift it up so that he looked at her, and he nearly flinched away.

 “Come on, look at me," she said, looking at him straight in the eyes. "You can not be a great soldier if you cry, can you?”

 Caius nodded his head automatically, and yet that did not stop the tears that built and proved, so obviously, that he will never be able to be a soldier, to bring home laurels, not if he stood here uninjured and let tears still splash shamefully down his cheeks.

“ _Can_ you?” she asked again, at it was clear that this time she was looking for a verbal answer.

 He screwed his eyes shut and knew, shamefully and deep and burning on his inside, that there was a greater reason he could not be a soldier. He shame was twofold if did not win his battle, even against something as small as a butterfly, and cried not because he lost but because he’d considered winning.

 He wondered, if he’d just gotten over that initial pity—since when was pity a sin?—if he would have been able to just kill it and his mother would not be standing and looking at him with stern eyes, but gleaming proudly, lifting him up to sit on her hip.

 If he’d just let himself be bigger than that one butterfly, than his pity and emotion that only got in the way of victory.

 Caius shook his head again, opening his eyes to look at her. “No, Mama.”

 His mother nodded, and wiped his remaining tears away with her thumb.

 "Then you will not, will you?”

 He thought of going after the butterfly again, of crushing it this time, and bringing it home, as a trophy.

 “No, Mama.” he said. The weight on his chest that had been pressing, demanding tears, was pushed forcefully away by a strong resolve to make his mother proud of him again, as she was before this.

 His mother smiled.

“Good boy,” she said, though no praise showed in her eyes.

The next time Caius saw a butterfly, he tore its wings off and crushed it with his fingertips, and pride replaced any drop of mercy he would've have ever had.


End file.
